Scheming Sherlock
by JasNutter
Summary: Sherlock wants attention and John wants warmth. They meet halfway. Kind of.


John has been telling Sherlock repeatedly since sometime in mid-September to not shoot the heater. 'Do _not _mess with the heater, Sherlock", he has said so many times that from November it has just been an addition to his routine. It's like having tea; John does it every day, around fifteen times a day.

"Do not shoot it on any terms. Not if your life depends on it. In fact, don't shoot anything at all. Just leave it to me, alright? Do you understand, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock shoots the heater.

And as it happens, probably because John has done something to hideously offend the universe somewhere in his lifetime, the January is especially cold this year and if John isn't somewhat constantly warmed, fueled by his fury, (he may have combusted if it had been warmer), he would've frozen and that would have been it – John Watson, war veteran, army doctor, husband to the most insane genius the world had yet to see – death by turning into a miffed looking ice sculpture.

Sherlock of course, remains obstinately oblivious to this anger, so John simply ignores his request for tea, disregards his demand for a kiss, and slides under an ocean of blankets, planning to hibernate like the little hamster that he isn't, no matter what Harry says.

And that is that.

Until Sherlock wriggles in and slips two icicles between his thighs.

John yelps and might've leapt out the bed and straight into the beakers on the nightstand but Sherlock has one surprisingly heavy arm around his middle and a not-so-surprisingly heavy head on his shoulder and is purring contentedly, blissfully unaware of his husband's less than content state. John tries unsnarling the lankly iceberg, wriggling and groaning.

"Go away, you're cold."

"You're warm"

"No thanks to you!"

"Mmm". Sherlock shifts and sighs. His eyelashes tickle John's neck.

"I'm too cold to get anything done because of you."

Sherlock plants a soft kiss on his neck.

John blinks.

"_Did you plan this?"_

Sherlock, the giant, frozen teddy bear that he's suddenly morphed into, giggles and nuzzles the back of his head.

"If you want a day in bed, you can just ask for it."

Sherlock sweetly presses his lips against John's hair. "Dull."

"No. No it's not dull, Sherlock. You can't just have us both killed of pneumonia just because you want attention."

Sherlock makes a derisive sound that suggests he disagrees.

"In fact you don't even need to ask, you have my undivided attention all the time anyway. _All the time._"

That derisive snort makes another appearance. John wants to tell it to stay out of it.

"I bought you that entire diseased heart to dissect just yesterday. I stole a head from a morgue for you just a week ago. The head's family probably wanted it, you know, to go with the body."

He sniffs and mumbles, and John has to make him repeat two times, leaving Sherlock rather pouty.

"You didn't come to the crime scene with me."

"You wouldn't have _noticed_ if I came, Sherlock, you were lost somewhere in that head of yours. Besides, I had to _work, _you know. Work. That thing plebeians do to feed themselves and afford their spouses."

"Mrs. Hudson makes me eat alone."

John wracks his brain for a bit and Sherlock impatiently interrupts.

"You always eat at some distasteful pub before you arrive."

John groans. Sherlock never wants to have dinner and cuddle on the sofa like a normal married couple until that random, unpredictable moment when fancy strikes. John turns over, cradles the sulking face in his hands and kisses it, placating in the finest way he knew.

With sobriquets and flattery.

"My love, my beautiful genius," he says and kisses a stray curl.

This goes on for a while, and by the time they're getting unclothed and aroused under the blankets, Sherlock has the loveliest mouth John has ever kissed, the most entrancing voice John has ever listened to, and is the smartest, the most brilliant and the most incredible man John has ever met. He's also blushing and almost preening, and by the time John's gasping and he's whimpering and they're both coming, John is long forgiven.

He's also very warm and therefore very pleased. Sherlock is curled up against him, tracing the molecular structure of oxytocin on his stomach. It takes a while to figure out and when he does, it makes him smile.

"Love you too", he says, and tucks the blankets more snugly around them, warmer than ever.

* * *

_A fluff a day keeps the Reichenbach feels away. _

_Reviews also count as fluff. _


End file.
